Riskier Things
by Stormcrown201
Summary: In which Dorian kisses Leas, agrees to get closer to him, and meets his family. Not necessarily in that order, and in far quicker succession than he would have liked.
1. Tempting Fate

"You'd be surprised at the credit my tongue _gets_ me, Your Reverence."

The words are harsh, spat out like venom, and Dorian clenches his hands on the cloth of his sleeves and squares his shoulders as he speaks them. He is letting his noble façade slip, he knows, allowing her to get to him, losing control of his temper for something unworthy of his attention. But after the time he's had recently—after his father and his breakdown over Felix—and after months of being at best held at a distance by most of the Inquisition, at worst treated as though he were Tevinter itself and thus the font of all evil, well… He would ask who could blame him, but he need not. _They_ would.

Perhaps it is because the accusations now come from the revered mother, the same woman who would have had Leas hide his father's letter and take him into the meeting unawares—who, so Leas says, did it out of a desire to interfere in what was no concern of hers and fix what she judged broken. The thought of it only makes him stiffen his spine, and he sucks his lip to keep himself from scowling at her. Such _concern_ she had, but now she all but spits on his name. And for what?

Abruptly, Giselle casts her gaze to the side, and her expression shifts, her cheeks flushing dark. Dorian glances in the same direction, and his shoulders relax at the sight of Leas, approaching with a furrowed brow and clear confusion in his face. He makes no production of it, but his shoulders are tense too, and the shadows under his eyes seem darker than ever. He must have had a long day. "Oh, I…" Giselle murmurs, and Dorian takes a vicious pleasure in seeing her caught with her britches down.

"What's going on here?" Leas sounds as tired as he looks, but there is as yet no judgement in his face, merely curiosity and concern. Not that it matters; Dorian has experience enough with the man to guess which side he will take.

_Fighting your battles for you? Marvellous,_ part of him sneers. _But if she listens to him, I suppose I shouldn't complain._

"It seems the revered mother is concerned about my 'undue influence' over you," Dorian explains, less acidly than he'd hoped, but some of it still creeps into the words. Leas raises an eyebrow, and before he turns to look at Giselle again, Dorian notices him sucking his lip, the way he always does when he's realised something crucial about a situation. That gladdens him, though he can't say why.

"It _is_ just concern. Your Worship, you must know how this looks," Giselle says, and Dorian stiffens again, fingers digging deeper into his sleeves.

"You might have to spell it out, my dear," he tells her, and this time, he somehow keeps himself from sounding as venomous and _stung_ as he had mere moments ago. Arguably, he shouldn't feel this way at all; the southerners' hostility is petty, childish pigtail-pulling compared to the slander that goes on in the Imperial Senate. But he does, and ingrained instincts tell him to _keep it hidden_. No need to give them more ammunition.

Giselle turns her attention to Leas. "This man is of Tevinter. His presence at your side, the rumours alone…"

How kind—and absurdly hypocritical—of her to mention it _after_ she had already interfered with the business with his father. But Dorian does not mention it. Instead, he looks at Leas, in time to watch him assume an expression of what Dorian can only guess is profound irritation, his mouth twisting into a grimace, his brow furrowing over his narrowed eyes, and his nostrils flaring. For a moment, Dorian stares at him—he's never seen such a look on Leas' face before, not even when he's been dealing with the ponciest, the most murderous, and the most _racist_ of Orlesian nobles. That he shows it here… he's not sure what he should make of that.

"_E, sul'lath or…_" Leas mutters, and while Dorian isn't sure what he just said, he gets the sense that it echoes his sentiments precisely. He exhales heavily, then continues, "What's wrong with him being from Tevinter? Specifically? Have you heard anything—does he own _slaves_? What do you believe he's done?"

"I haven't heard of anything that he's _done_, exactly," Giselle says, "nor about him owning slaves—"

"Which I _don't_, and I never _have_—" Dorian snaps. Beside him, he sees Leas relax, and for a moment, he wonders that the man was genuinely concerned about that (and hasn't mentioned it before), but Giselle keeps talking, preventing him from continuing with the line of thought.

"And I am aware that not everyone from the Imperium is the same."

Again with the hypocrisy. Dorian glances at Leas, and Leas at him, and Leas shakes his head minutely, evidently trying not to roll his eyes. Then they look back at Giselle, and that they do so at almost the same moment is something else that Dorian doesn't know what to make of it. "How kind of you to notice," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm and venom concealed in sugar. "Yet still you bow to the opinion of the masses?"

"The opinion of the masses is based on centuries of evidence," Giselle responds, contradicting what she had said immediately prior as hypocrites so often do. By this point, Dorian is sure that if his back stiffens any further, it'll start bending backwards. "What would you have me tell them?"

"The _truth_?"

"The truth is that I do not know you, and neither do they. Thus, these rumours will continue."

_And you won't even _try_ to know me, unlike Leas here, and _he_ has more reason to despise me than any of you,_ Dorian seethes._ If the Dalish elf can be so welcoming to the big bad Tevinter but not you, perhaps you should seriously reconsider your choices in life! But it's so much easier to stuff your head in the sand and blind yourself to _reality_, isn't it? Just like it is for us. We pretend we're superior to everyone, and you pretend we're all the same because reality is so much harder to face. Well, it would appear your people and mine have something in common after all!_ He considers giving voice to these words, but Leas—who now clenches his jaw and glowers at Mother Giselle, another exceedingly rare event—speaks before he can.

"Your Reverence, the opinion of the masses is _also_ that my people are sinful and lesser by nature," he says. Though his voice sounds calm, there's a distinct note of frustration in it, of a gradual whittling down of patience. Dorian wonders if what he's been dealing with all day is nobles who think precisely that of the elves—people who, like Giselle, refuse to see past their prejudices and give them free rein. No surprise he's irritated, then, even if his patience has always seemed infinite, though the fact that he's irritated on behalf of _him_… that's something. "But you have said nothing against my being the Inquisitor even though my being an elf _has_ cost us support. Dorian has done much for the Inquisition. Yet you judge him so quickly, approach him only as an enemy, uninterested in talking, and all but _slander_ his name for something that is just as much out of his hands as my race is out of mine."

Very well-put, if Dorian says so himself. The man would make a good orator—has proven himself a good orator since he became Inquisitor. But Giselle, like so many others with prejudice in their hearts, remains unmoved. "With all due respect, you underestimate the effect this man has on the people's good opinion," she says, and Dorian only barely suppresses his scowl. _Maker_, the excuses people come up with to justify their bigotry. Not that fear of his homeland is unjustified, far from it—but he is not his homeland, any more than Vivienne is Orlais or Sera is Ferelden.

Leas shakes his head. "He'll have no worse effect on it than my being an elf who proudly supports and champions the elves," he says. He does not snap the words, but they come out as sharp as a whip, with a note of finality. "If I asked from where these rumours originated? Do the people _know_ what he's done for the Inquisition, Mother Giselle?"

A pause, and Mother Giselle stares at Leas in the way people who have been caught out and can't deny that they've been caught out always do. "I… see." Dorian raises an eyebrow, and to give the woman what little credit she deserves, she evidently knows to quit while she's ahead, or at least when to admit defeat. "I meant no disrespect, Inquisitor, only to ask after this man's intentions. If you feel he is without ulterior motive, then I humbly beg forgiveness of you both."

Pretty words, but Dorian heard enough of those in the Senate, and they _always_ masked something far uglier. Perhaps she is sincere, but he won't hold his breath, and he remains stiff and stung as she bows and leaves. When she has gone, Leas runs a hand over his face and through his hair, and Dorian would thank him for his help if he weren't so _frustrated_, if his blood wasn't running so hot through his body and clouding his head. "Well, that's something."

"Like so many others, she so quickly gives in to her own prejudices," Leas says, muttering again. The annoyance is plain in him, too, and perversely enough, the commonality helps cool his blood a little, and he looks at Leas. "We'll never get anywhere if we can't stop judging people on characteristics as _arbitrary_ as nationality!"

"Long day, I take it," Dorian says. "It sounds as if she's not the only bigot you've had to deal with recently."

Leas shakes his head, shoulders sagging with obvious exhaustion. "I've just spent the last few hours wrangling with stubborn priestesses and nobles, trying to convince them that the treatment of elves in Orlais is… barbaric. But they have never known another way, perhaps do not _wish_ to know one… It was difficult," he says. This time, there's no anger in his tone, only great sadness and weariness, and he bows his head. "To be fair, I think I made some headway. Some minor comte agreed to investigate my charges against his chevaliers for their actions in one of the alienages and even appeared genuinely shocked… But I will never understand how people can be so stubborn in their hatred."

"I'm sorry," Dorian murmurs, and at once, he feels altogether rather stupid for his anger. Whatever the bigotry of these southerners against him, at least they see him as a _person_ rather than as an animal. _Tevinter_ has never been so ruthlessly treated as the elves have been and are—rather the opposite. "At least you convinced someone?"

"I'm not sure about 'convinced', but yes, that progress is something," Leas agrees, and he shoots Dorian a tired, but genuine smile. "It was worth the derision and obstinacy of the others for a promise, for even a bit of change. Still, the way Giselle spoke to you… it wasn't what I wanted to hear after all that. I _want_ to like her, you know. I do, mostly. But she gives in so easily to her prejudices…"

"Much like many others," Dorian reminds him.

"True. Whether I should hold that against her when it's so common in Andrastian humans, I'm not sure…" There's a pause, then Leas shakes his head again, rolls his shoulders, and looks up at him. The sparkle has come back into his eyes, and he seems refreshed. "But enough of my going on. This is about you. I swear, I think you've been copping it worse than I have—and that's no mean feat. Giselle… she didn't get to you, did she?"

She did, but he's not about to admit that. Even if Leas has just said that he thinks Dorian's been getting worse abuse than he has, he'd much rather not seem whiny. But between his grief for Felix and his fury at his father, Dorian believes the man's seen more than enough of his more negative emotions for a long while. "No, it takes more to get to me than thinly veiled accusations," he says, and Leas, naïve as ever, appears to swallow it without question. Whether he should be grateful for that, Dorian has no idea.

"You don't think she'll do anything?" he asks.

"Do what? Yours is the good opinion I care about, not hers," he says. In more ways than one, and speaking of which…

Now might not be the best time. But he's yet to find a more, dare he say, _convenient_ opportunity to mention the brewing rumours, rumours of an altogether different sort. It might do a world of good in either direction to mention them now—or it might hurt, but there's no question in his mind that that's where this is going. In which case, best to get it over with.

He turns to Leas, and Leas furrows his brow curiously, no doubt at his expression. "I don't know if you're aware, but the assumption in some corners is that you and I are… intimate."

Leas stares at him, expression faltering and then failing completely, and at once, Dorian wonders if he misspoke. Perhaps he approached the matter too bluntly—Leas is not used to such honesty from him, only flippancy and sarcasm—or perhaps, _somehow_, he has misread the signals Leas has been giving off. (Unlikely, the man's about as subtle as a brick to the face, but possible.) Or perhaps—

The flush that spreads over Leas' cheeks now cuts off that line of thought. Despite himself, Dorian can't help but smile as he watches the man's face go from pink to a very interesting shade of red that almost matches his hair. He looks away, rubbing the back of his neck, biting his lip, and running his hand through said hair as he always seems to do when he's nervous. His eyes rove about for a moment longer, never meeting Dorian's. Dorian is about to prompt him when he opens his mouth at last and says, "Yes, someone was bound to talk, weren't they? I wasn't exactly subtle… I'm sorry." He shakes his head, plainly embarrassed and convinced he has made some misstep, and Dorian shakes his head.

"Does it seem like I blame you?" he says, and Leas looks up, the confusion returning. "I just thought you should know."

Know—and what next? What does he want out of this, anyway? Some treacherous part of him entertains an idea of _more_, of putting his hand in Leas', of something like intimacy—_real_ intimacy—but that is dangerous territory, and he veers away from it just as quickly. Madness to expect anything real even here in the south, especially with a Dalish elf, no matter how friendly and kind and open-minded and _so many other things_ that Dalish elf may be.

No, let it be simple. As ever. It might hurt, but the other possibility will no doubt hurt more.

"Well," Leas says, weakly. He drops his hand and looks up at Dorian again. "That's not the worst assumption they could have, is it?" His tone is uncertain—all on him, apparently—and Dorian thinks he should be put off. The man is usually so brave. Where is his confidence now? Is he backing out now that he's seemingly faced with more than the offer of a quick fuck, the way so many others before have?

"I don't know. Is it?"

Possibly not the best tack to take with a man who's already had a very long day talking around in circles with people who no doubt won't answer his direct questions, he realises the second the words leave his mouth. As such, it surprises him not at all when Leas throws his hands up in the air, glowering at him in much the same way as he glowered at Mother Giselle. Perhaps he's _needled_ more than he's _frustrated_—either way, Dorian got a reaction, and it's one he now finds he takes pleasure in. That Leas would become so agitated on account of _him_… alarming, but intriguing. He'll see more of that if he can, before it all goes to shit.

"Do you always answer a question with a question?"

"Would you like me to answer in some other fashion?" He smiles as he says it, well aware that he's probably having too much fun with this, but until five minutes ago, he'd had no idea Leas could even _be_ provoked in this manner. No harm in prodding the beast a bit further…

Famous last words.

Despite his frustration and his glare, Leas chuckles. The sound is as genuinely amused as it is exasperated. "If you're capable," he says, and Dorian raises his eyebrow—though he shouldn't complain, those words are variants on a theme that never fails to goad _him_. "_Y ma ne din or'em…_"

Once again, Dorian has no clue what he just said, but it doesn't matter. If this is to start with them _goading_ each other, though he suspects Leas does not know that he has done so—well, why not? They've both been actively flirting with each other for weeks on end. This is only the logical continuation of a running theme.

Admittedly, however, a little more forethought was involved on prior occasions than now, when he takes a moment to check whether there's anyone looking and to calculate the size gap before stepping forward, grasping Leas' arm, hooking the fingers of his other hand under his chin, tilting his head up just enough, pulling him onto his toes, and leaning down to kiss him.

Once again to his complete lack of surprise, Leas is _soft_, softer than most of the others he's ever kissed before, almost like someone who never _has_ been kissed and seems untainted by the filth of the world. But he almost doesn't feel it at all, because Leas gasps and stumbles—well, what did he expect when he pulled up onto his toes—and his mouth almost falls away, and Dorian can feel the sudden tension that comes with his surprise, seizing up his muscles. For half a moment, Dorian chases him, trying to find the right angle while starting to wonder if perhaps he made a mistake and has pushed this too far. The messy slide of Leas' mouth against his, open then closed, doesn't tell him anything until he realises—_Oh._ He's kissing him _back_.

Slow, careful—not taking, not even exploring, but responding, and in fact, almost too much like it's _expected_ of him. Their teeth knock, and their noses bump, and Leas nearly falls back onto the soles of his feet and pulls himself away as a result at one point, and sweet Maker, it's all too much like the awkward kisses he had as a young man that he'd rather not remember. But it seems… genuine and sweet, if submissive, letting Dorian keep control while he returns it, and _that_ surprises him even as he's forced to admit to himself that he can't say what he was expecting. For all the flirting and all the times he's imagined this, more often than he cares to admit, Leas himself had never seemed like a man who _did_ this sort of thing. Now…

But after a moment, the submissiveness of Leas' response gets a little too much, no matter how sweet and soft it is, and Dorian makes himself pull away a tad. He should disengage entirely, but Maker's mercy, those blue eyes of Leas' are _even more stunning_ close up, and he can't quite read the expression on the man's face. Confused? Shocked? Certainly not _pleased_, even if he responded. Maybe—

Leas whimpers and hooks a hand around his neck and gives Dorian a gentle tug, suggesting something but forcing nothing, and that's all it takes for the pieces to fall into place, for him to realise that he _liked_ it. At that moment, he remembers that he was _goaded_, and he goes back in and kisses Leas again, this time like he has something to prove.

Firmer this time, and not so clumsy; Leas grabs his arm with his other hand and steadies himself on it, while moving said hand up and down his arm. Dorian is thus encouraged to let his own hands roam, to move up his back to his shoulder blades (which feel like they have _rocks_ in them, they're so tense). He is encouraged, too, to go further in other ways, to tease at Leas' lips with the tip of his tongue and kiss the corner of his mouth, and Leas giggles faintly before kissing back and running a hand through his hair. Exploratory, more adventurous now, but still slow, cautious, and gentle, only suggesting, never forcing. Handling him like this is something precious, something to treasure—there's excitement brewing under the surface, but it's kept in check by his… _caring_.

An unfamiliar sensation, but one he's been looking for—to kiss a man and see for himself in actions and not just words how much the man _cared_ about him. This can't end well, is nothing if not utterly foolish, but Dorian drags him closer, anyway, searching for more of that thing. Their bodies press against each other, and despite the height difference, they fit together remarkably well. _Oh, the irony._ Dorian snakes an arm around his waist, and Leas giggles again, but then—_Somebody will see._

It takes a greater effort of the will than he'll ever admit to pull himself away, to let go and step back—if he keeps touching him, he's not sure he'll be able to resist the temptation to go back in again. Leas remains where he stands, eyes closed, jaw slightly dropped, and for all he knows that this was probably _not_ his best idea, Dorian still grins at him. If there was a question or a challenge in what Leas said before, no doubt he's _more_ than answered it. "If you're capable. The nonsense you speak," he says, and he does his best to get his breath back and be surreptitious about it.

Leas opens his eyes and stares at him, the blue contrasting nicely with the heavy flush of his cheeks. "True. I'll never doubt you again," he says, and Dorian's grin only widens at the unsteadiness of his voice. So he _can_ still sweep a man off his feet, or whatever the more appropriate phrase is for this. _Good._ As for the consequences… damn them, he supposes. "But you do realise this makes the rumours somewhat true?"

Another challenge, or at least, that's how he chooses to take it. He grins at Leas, realising he's probably enjoying the look of stunned incredulity on his face a little _too_ much but unable to care. "Evidently," he says, and what follows is, again, a natural progression from how things were between them not so long ago. "We might have to explore the full truth of them later. In private."

He doesn't give Leas a chance to respond; it's been his experience that leaving these things up in the air all but guarantees to keep the other man's interest for a little longer, and that _intimacy_… well, he doesn't want this to end yet. Perhaps not any time soon. Foolish, but the little tingling sensation that's starting inside him won't listen to any sense, and he wants _more_ of it. As he returns to the bookshelves, blood pumping hot with something else entirely now, he feels his mouth curling up into a small smile. Maybe it'll all go to shit eventually, but for now, he means to enjoy himself. Maker take the consequences.

For a long moment, there's silence. Then Dorian hears Leas' footsteps, padding to the stairs—followed shortly by a giggle, and another, and another. Soon, the man is giggling semi-hysterically as he walks down the stairs, clearly _still_ in disbelief but also very pleased with himself, or at least with this turn of events. It's a light, bright sound, joyful and full of hope, and Dorian pauses in his browsing the shelves to listen to it. It carries Leas all the way down the stairs, through Solas' office, and then out of earshot. When it's gone, Dorian misses it almost at once. _Something else I want to hear again._ He wonders how much he'd trade for it.

A great deal, probably, and for once, he doesn't even lambast himself for his foolishness.

Maker take the consequences, indeed.

* * *

**Translations**

"_E, sul'lath or…"_: "Oh, for the love of…"

_"Y ma ne din or'em…"_: "But you will be the death of me…"

All translations taken from FenxShiral's Project Elvhen.


	2. A Strange Turn of Events

The next day, when Leas' taste still lingers on his lips, Dorian settles down into his usual chair in the library and tries to focus on his latest book. For once, it's _good_: a surprisingly detailed treatise on veilfire and its properties by one Magister Marcus Danarius (son of the late Aetius Danarius, as brilliant a scholar as his father but _infinitely_ more pleasant to be around, as Dorian recalls). But still, he can't concentrate. The words swim in front of his eyes, and he can still _feel_ Leas' mouth on his and the way their bodies fitted together, and he keeps wondering what Leas would make of this treatise, if he would be interested in it at all. He reads the same page three times and absorbs nothing.

_Kaffas, what is this,_ he thinks, and he sits back in his chair with a long-suffering sigh. He's been distracted by thoughts of other men before—most notably Rilienus—but it's never been this bad, nor so vivid. The explanations spring to his mind at once: most of the other men, he had already fucked; there was nothing more to wonder about, and all that had distracted him was the wish—always unrequited—that it could happen again. And there'd been nothing personal in it, either, save perhaps for Rilienus—but that had been years ago, and it hadn't been his primary concern. With Leas, there's been nothing but kissing, and flirting, and a few odd glances he can't (or won't) tell what they mean, and…

All right. So there's been something more. Why should that distract him? He won't hope for any more than that. He can see where this is going; he won't try to change it. If he's tingling inside anyway, well, maybe that's only because it's been a while and because he enjoys Leas' company more than most of the other men.

Even so, it feels… tingly, and warm. Idle thoughts cross his mind of something _more_, and _Maker take the consequences_ mingles with _fasta vass, no, please, no, not this again_. They go round and round for what seems like hours until Dorian looks up at the window, sees it's only late morning, and groans. He could _desperately_ use a drink. At the very least, he'd feel better if he could dislodge this absurd mix of euphoria and dismay. Nothing's _happened_ beyond that, he need not get his hopes up; he knows where this is going… it shouldn't be so _fearful_.

Below, a door opens, and what sounds like a whole parade of people come wandering into Solas' office, their armour and weapons clanking as they do. Dorian listens for a moment, hears murmured words rise up; they reach him but are mostly indistinct. At most, he catches some snatches of elven, a few names, and what sounds like Leas introducing them to Solas. If he were in a better mood, he would eavesdrop, but Leas and the terrible mix of emotions he brings linger behind every thought he has, luring him back in, away from what's in front of him. Dorian sighs and leans back in his chair, closes his eyes and runs his hands over his face, and he tries not to think beyond the immediate consideration that he should get this over with soon.

Why he shudders and cringes away from the very idea, why he cannot bring himself to consider it… he doesn't care to contemplate that.

Sometime later, he abandons the book, gets up, and heads for the bookshelves again, hoping they might contain some distraction. Perhaps he might try some of the trash he is so fond of tearing into with Leas. The sheer badness of such 'works', as opposed to Marcus Danarius' quality treatise, might be sufficiently infuriating that he'll be able to keep his mind off the burgeoning unease in his head. (An uncomfortable emotion made even worse by its perverse mingling with the _euphoria_, which will not fade no matter how much he tries to trample on it.) It would not put him in a better mood, but if he could just _think_…

As Dorian's hand comes to rest on the spine of one such 'work', some thoroughly exploded theory on a potential connection between elves and the Fade (Maker only knows why it's here now), he hears footsteps ascending the stairs from Solas' office. For a moment, he pauses, but then he pulls the book from its place and moves to return to his seat. He's almost there when he turns his head and sees Leas emerge from the stairwell, followed by a group of roughly nine other Dalish elves, all in armour, several of them bearing the same patterns of… _vallaslin_, is it called? For half a moment, he pauses, then thinks better of it and returns to his chair.

"And this is the library," Leas says as he does so, and Dorian glances out of the corner of his eye to see him spreading his arm. His fellow Dalish stare around them, some looking impressed, others much less so.

"_E!_ Quite the collection," says one of the men. "How long do you reckon it'll take to get through it all?"

Another man, standing right next to Leas, snorts and casts a disdainful look on the shelves. "Is it worth it? How much of this is simply propaganda?"

Leas shrugs, chuckling. "I don't know. I haven't had the time to go through it all. Use your best judgement." The second man looks unconvinced, as do one of the women and another of the men, but the others appear merely curious. Dorian wonders how many books they've seen before, then makes a quick mental note not to ask. Such a question might seem… condescending.

He makes himself comfortable in his chair and cracks open the book, but as he does so, he's acutely aware of Leas leading the Dalish (are they his clanmates? They must be, they seem familiar enough with each other) around the library. What if they come his way and Leas introduces them? What should he say to them? _Hello, I'm Dorian, the big bad Tevinter, and I may have kissed your clanmate yesterday, perhaps more than once?_

Though he wouldn't need to say anything, would he? They are _Dalish_, and he'd be safer assuming they won't be as friendly as Leas. Anything he said to them after they discover he's Tevinter would go down badly, to say the least. Dorian's eyes flicker to them again and again as he tries to read his book, and while he soon realises that this is a far better distraction, he immediately rails against the idea. _This is nothing to do with you, and you don't want to draw attention to yourself._ Not something he's ever thought to himself before, but facing down so many Dalish when he's still such a mix of triumphant and… _disquieted_… is not high up his priority list.

Even as he resolves on that, however, it occurs to him that Leas might have other ideas, and at once, his stomach plummets.

He has hardly recovered from the first wave of dismay when the thought is proven entirely accurate, as he catches movement out of the corner of his eye and looks up to see Leas approaching him. There's a smile on his face, excitement in his eyes, a flush in his cheeks, and he shows no signs of acknowledging or being embarrassed by yesterday's events. "Dorian," he calls out. "Are you busy?"

_Fasta vass._ Well, if this needs doing, there's no reason to put it off. Probably these people are here to visit, and he won't need to worry about seeing them again. He may as well burn the bridge while he's ahead—and do it _quickly_.

"Well, I _was_ reading this," he says, gesturing to his book. "But to be perfectly honest, I'm sure these people here will prove much more interesting company."

Leas grins and rests his hand on his hip. "By your tone, I'm guessing that wouldn't be much of an accomplishment."

"It would not, no. Why do you stock such outdated theories as this, anyway?" Leas furrows his brow, and Dorian holds up the book to show the cover to him.

"I haven't read that one," Leas says after a moment. "You'll have to fill me in later. Anyway!" He glances back and jerks his head in a gesture of beckoning, and his clanmates immediately come to join him. Up close, Dorian does his best to keep from staring, because the man who now gravitates to Leas' side as if drawn by a magnet is identical to Leas in every respect save for his hairstyle, _vallaslin_, and lack of scars and easy warmth. Indeed, he has an expression of unbridled disdain on his face that would rival the haughtiest magisters, and he sniffs as he gazes at Dorian, clearly unimpressed. He is adorned in Dalish armour, and at his side, he carries a hefty mace, the grip of which he clutches tightly.

Dorian's stomach sinks. _This must be his _brother_. Marvellous._ But he's faced far worse in Tevinter than one haughty-seeming Dalish elf, brother of a man he's just kissed or not, and so he inclines his head politely to the man and shifts his gaze to the others. Just behind Leas is an older couple, both in armour, one wielding a sword, the other a bow. Their jaws are set, and their gazes are focused and intense, not so contemptuous as Leas' brother's but far from friendly. Their hair is greying, but Dorian hardly notices that over the colour of the man's eyes: precisely the same vivid blue as Leas'. In truth, the more he looks, the more he can see of Leas and his brother in both of them.

_Sweet Maker. Don't tell me these are his parents, as well,_ he thinks, his stomach sinking even further, though his face remains impassive. _What is this, a family visit?_ If it is, then it's just more proof of his theory that the Maker has a perverse sense of humour. They may know nothing, but to be confronted with Leas' family the _next day_ after kissing him…

_They don't know anything. They'll never know anything. No need to take fright unless you want them asking questions._ A sensible enough thought, and so Dorian quickly passes his gaze over the remaining members of the group. None are particularly noteworthy: one seems younger than others, his _vallaslin_ almost newly applied (though Dorian is hardly any judge of these things). Another has an air of sarcastic disdain about him. A third is visibly tense, and her eyes linger on every human in the room as if waiting for an attack. A fourth is actually not wearing armour at all and indeed doesn't look like she's ever held a blade—or a staff—before. He would wonder at that, but Leas speaks before he can.

"Everyone, this is Dorian. He's another one of my companions," he says, as though Dorian were a friend—and _not Tevinter_. "Dorian, these are some of my clanmates and family."

"Well met," Dorian says, and he doesn't dare say more. Instead, he inclines his head again, deeper this time. He might be a little thrown, but he'll be damned if he'll let that show. If he were so weak, his fellow countrymen would have eaten him alive a long time ago.

Leas' brother presses his lips into a thin line and stares unblinkingly at Dorian. But the others, even the wary woman, nod politely in return, and a small chorus of '_an'daran atish'an_'s and '_an'eth'ara_'s ensues. Meeting their gazes, Dorian determines that the dominant emotion seems not to be hostility, but curiosity, and that they appear to be measuring him up. No surprise, he supposes, but how long will that last?

He glances at Leas, almost opens his mouth, then wonders how rude the Dalish will find it for him to talk about them like they're not there, and almost immediately shifts his gaze to the older couple. "Are you here to visit?"

"Just me and Rahnmyathis," the woman says. Her voice is quite deep and accompanies her stern demeanour well. "The rest of us came to join the Inquisition."

Dorian's brow lifts before he can stop it, and he looks back at Leas. "Ah. I thought you had a letter from your Keeper saying your clan wouldn't be coming to Skyhold?"

Leas shrugs and smiles. "This isn't all of us."

"We're volunteers," another of the men says. He looks to be a little younger than Leas, and he has youthful, eager features and messy brown hair. He smiles at Dorian, neither hostility nor curiosity clear in his gaze. "Almost all the clan could spare. We _wanted_ to come help the Inquisition."

"Took you long enough. How long has it been, again?" Dorian says before he can stop himself, and while most of the group have no visible reaction, Leas' brother stiffens.

"_I_ wanted to come as soon as I'd heard what happened, but the Keeper forbade it," he says, clearly irritated. "As for the rest of us, well, it wouldn't have been _wise_ for them to come while the Inquisition was led by _shemlen_, now, would it?" He speaks as if Dorian could not understand such a concept, but Dorian opts not to take offence. "It's safer now that my brother's in charge."

"Besides," the man with the air of sarcastic disdain about him adds, "we've had troubles of our own near Wycome. We can hardly put those above some distant threat, even if it _is_ a hole in the sky. Uvunleas and the Inquisition appear to be holding the fort nicely, anyway."

Dorian nods. "Fair enough," he says, and he eyes Leas again, but Leas only smiles. He appears to be sitting back and watching, judging how Dorian interacts with his clanmates, and the thought sends a bolt of ice through his veins. What does that _mean_, if his assessment is correct? What is Leas planning?

A brief pause while he scrambles for more words and tries to work out who he should focus on. Ultimately, he settles his gaze on Leas' brother and comes out with a rather lame, especially by his standards, "What will you be doing here?"

"Most of us will work for his advisors," Leas' brother says. "_I_ will be joining Uvun and the rest of you. Out in the field. Where I can keep an eye on him." Leas grins. "For my own peace of mind, of course."

"But not ours," the older woman mutters; the man next to her rolls his eyes and nods.

"We'll be _fine_, _Mamae_," Leas' brother protests. "We were fine coming here, weren't we? We didn't need you to be on 'escort duty'. And—"

The man, presumably their father, breaks in with a raised eyebrow. "Considering you all spent half the journey bickering and the other half fighting off demons and bandits, I'm rather inclined to disagree," he says dryly. "I don't envy Deshanna, having to herd the clan around like that _all_ the time. A few weeks was bad enough."

A pause, while Leas' brother struggles for a response and the others look at him in some amusement. Finally, he shrugs his shoulders, exasperated. "Well, _maybe_. But we'll be just fine _now_. You won't have anything to worry about while I'm with him."

"What, both of you in the field, fighting off demons and red templars and Creators only know what else? Is that supposed to reassure us?" their mother says.

Leas laughs and shakes his head. "We'll take care, _Mamae_, I promise. We can both handle ourselves, and there are plenty of people with a vested interest in keeping me alive. Dorian is one of them."

His brother rolls his eyes. "Excuse me if I don't trust _shemlen_ and flat-ears to protect you," he says. In the back of the group, another of the women groans and buries her face in her hands.

Dorian raises his eyebrow, but Leas shakes his head at him. "They've done fine so far, Iselen, _trust_ me," he says. "I'm still in one piece with only a few new scars after seven months. That should be proof of their abilities, shouldn't it? In _any event_, we can stand here arguing about our activities, or we can get on with the introductions. Which do you prefer?"

"Point taken," Iselen says, raising his hands. "Continue."

"_'Ma serannas, da'mis,_" Leas says. He glances back at Dorian, grinning. "Excuse us. I didn't mean for us to get side-tracked."

"That's quite all right," Dorian tells him, inclining his head again.

Leas takes that as the cue to make his introductions. He gestures first to the older couple. "These are my parents, Rahnmyathis and Melothari," he says, and they nod to Dorian. He then gestures to his brother and the youngest of the group, the one with the freshly applied _vallaslin_. "This is my brother, Iselen, and my cousin, Anverelan. They're both warriors of the clan. Syghimye and Telahmisa here are hunters—" and the eager-looking young man and wary woman nod as his parents did—"and Laisal and Irosyla are also warriors." These two murmur words in elven, presumably something like 'it's a pleasure to meet you', and Dorian nods towards them too. Then he glances at the last woman, the only one not in armour. "And this is Halevuna. She's a hearthkeeper, but she's here on other business."

The woman smiles. "Technically, I'm not joining. I'm coming here to stay, but like Leas said, I have another job. That's looking after—" She glances down, then blinks. "Oh, you haven't seen Adhlean yet, have you?"

Dorian stares. That name sounds familiar.

"Ah," Leas says, and he smiles fondly and also looks down. "Somebody's being shy again. Adhlean, come out and say hello to the nice human."

Iselen steps aside, and Dorian watches with a frown as from behind Leas' legs peers a young boy, maybe about ten years old, who clutches onto Leas' tunic and stares at Dorian. His eyes are large and the same shade of blue, distinctly frightened, and a grimace mars his young face. He runs a hand through his brown hair, and he licks his lips. Said lips then move, but no sound comes out, or if it does, it is too soft for him to hear.

Leas rubs his hair. "_Tel'gela, ise ni'shemlen,_" he says soothingly, and the boy visibly swallows and nods.

"_A-An'daran atish'an,_" he stammers, while still all but hanging off Leas' shirt. A pause, then his eyes go wide. "Oh, er, you don't speak elven, do you? I mean—hello. Oh—" His eyes get wider, and he blushes and looks up at Leas, and at that moment, Dorian remembers where he's heard the name before, and his eyes almost pop out. "Is that how you be polite to a human? What if they have some other—" He looks back at Dorian. "I mean—"

"No need to fall over yourself being polite to the _shemlen_, Adhlean," Iselen says with another roll of his eyes, while the others chuckle.

Leas smiles and rubs the boy's hair again. Despite himself, Dorian can't stop staring. All thoughts of Tevinter civility have disappeared from his head. "It's all right," Leas says, barely restraining laughter. "_Hello_ will suffice."

"Yes, that's correct," Dorian says, inwardly cursing himself for sounding so shaken. Somehow, he forces a smile. _Kaffas,_ this is—of all the people in the world he could have met a _day after_—"You are Leas' son, I take it?"

The boy nods frantically. "_Vin,_" he says. "Er, I mean, yes. Um, it's very nice to meet you, ser, um—serah—is that—what's your title—"

Leas can't keep from laughing this time and puts his arm around his son. "_Easy_, _'ma'hallain._ You don't need to stand on ceremony with Dorian here, I assure you."

"I'm just trying to be nice, _Babae_," Adhlean protests.

"You are," Dorian says, vaguely hoping that that might reassure the boy a little. The poor thing looks to be on the verge of panic, and Dorian wonders how many humans he's ever met before. Skyhold must be an overwhelming experience for him if the clan is all he's ever known. "Just 'Dorian' is fine."

"They're all trustworthy, Adhlean, the humans with me, whatever your uncle says," Leas tells the boy, ignoring Iselen's raised eyebrow and incredulous snort. "No need to be afraid."

"Okay…" the boy says, clearly not believing his father. He looks at Dorian. "Anyway, um, Halevuna is here to look after me. Because everyone else is gonna be out in the field, and, um…"

He's coming to stay. He's coming to _stay_. Maker have mercy. Dorian swallows and feels the blood drain from his face, and his chest goes so tight that it feels like his ribs might break under the pressure, but he otherwise keeps in control.

"You're very young to be coming here," he says, carefully. "Why in the world—"

Adhlean cringes back, and Dorian sees for a moment that his hands are slick with sweat. Leas is the one to explain. "It turns out he's a mage, like me. But he's one more mage than the clan can keep. Rather than send him off to another clan without my knowledge, the Keeper sent him here to study with me." Adhlean nods, while Dorian notes that Rahnmyathis and Melothari look displeased.

"I thought the Dalish treasured their mages," he says, again phrasing the words as cautiously as he can.

"We do," Leas tells him. "But my clan has a propensity for producing mage children, which other clans lack, and we can't keep too many without attracting unwanted attention. So when we end up with more than five mages, we give the excess mages to other clans. That way, every clan has the mages they need, and the templars leave us be. Adhlean here is… number six, but Deshanna didn't want to send him away without me knowing about it, so…"

That makes sense enough, but Dorian quickly espies another issue. "I understand. But you'll be out in the field most of the time, and the rest of it, you'll be handling dignitaries and reports. How much time will you have for…?"

Leas chuckles. "I've told Josephine to schedule in time for lessons," he says. "Any dignitaries who will be affected will just have to be patient or get stuffed. But it's true, my time will be limited. Solas has agreed to help, and hopefully, Fiona will too, and I'm going to find some other elven mages to help…"

"Specifically elven?"

Iselen glares at him, and Adhlean cringes again. "No _shemlen_, please," he stammers, voice very small. His eyes go wide again. "I mean—no offence—I'm sure you're a very nice _shemlen_, but—your people are scary—I don't want—I'll just be quiet now." He buries his face in his father's tunic while Dorian stares and wonders just how _terrified_ the boy is.

Leas gives his son a reassuring squeeze. "Easy," he murmurs, then looks at Dorian. "We've been teaching him about the fall of Arlathan and the Dales. He's a bit… frightened of your people, as you might imagine, and coming to Skyhold is going to be a big transition. I won't make it any worse by forcing him to take lessons with people he fears. Though, if you had any resources…?"

Dorian manages a genuine smile and shakes his head. "Nothing that would be appropriate for a child, I'm afraid, unless he's some sort of prodigy," he says. "Do you _want_ to explain Veil-warp differential and magical theorems to him?"

"What the fuck is Veil-warp—" Iselen breaks in.

"I have no time to explain that," Leas says cheerfully, grinning at his brother. "Dorian, your point is made."

"He's a mage, as well?" one of the women—Irosyla—says. She shoots Dorian a wary look. "Has he been teaching you anything, like Solas and this… Vivienne?"

Leas shakes his head. "We've spoken a lot about magic, but no, he hasn't been teaching me."

Dorian raises an eyebrow. "Would that be a problem if I were?"

Leas shoots him a slightly pained smile and says, "They're not entirely keen on the fact that I've been picking up even more magical tricks than I already had since I joined the Inquisition. It wouldn't be a problem with _you_—exactly… they'd just think I'd be getting rather too _much_ power."

"He's a dreamer, and he's got this weird mark thing," Irosyla says while Dorian's eyebrow climbs higher. "He can do shit with the Fade most of us can't dream of. It's—I mean, magic is great and all—but most of us don't _understand_ it. I, for one, would prefer he kept it away from us."

"You say that like learning how to be a dreamer is the only crazy thing he's got up to since joining the Inquisition," Telahmisa adds. "I mean—Orlesians? The Chantry? The 'Herald of Andraste' bullshit? Uvunleas, why you don't feel you need a long bath after every day, I don't know…"

Leas laughs. Dorian's mouth twitches as well, and yet he thinks he can detect an undercurrent of… tension? The scowls that appear on many of their faces when Telahmisa mentions Orlais and the Chantry, and the odd looks most of them give Leas now, seem to indicate that there's something there. Disapproval of his choices, of how much he has adapted to his situation? "I've made the best of it. If I spent all my time bathing, we'd never get anywhere."

"True enough," says Syghimye, who most notably does not scowl. Quite the contrary: his expression as he gazes on Leas is even a little awed. "One must have priorities. Well, Leas—" and here Dorian sees a not-so-subtle subject change coming, not that he's ungrateful—"you've told us how you met the others. How did you meet Dorian?"

Dorian sucks in his breath, and he shifts his gaze to Leas to see him giving him a pleading glance. He need not be a mind-reader to determine what that means, and he clamps his mouth firmly shut. "At Redcliffe," Leas says. "It's a _very_ long story, but Dorian helped me stop a Venatori plot that would have seen the rebel mages enslaved—among other things. He asked to join the Inquisition afterwards, and I accepted. I'll tell you everything later."

"Venatori?" Laisal says.

"A cult. Tevinter supremacists, looking to restore the old Imperium."

Iselen snorts. "Hah! You say that like there's any other kind of Tevinter," he says contemptuously, and Dorian opens his mouth to protest. But the look Leas shoots him now is not so much pleading as it is _begging_, and so he shuts it again, though his spine has stiffened, and he looks hard at Iselen. What a charming fellow. That thought is only borne out when Iselen continues, "We'll be facing them, right?"

Leas rolls his eyes. "_Yes_, Iselen, we'll be killing _many_ Venatori," he says, and Iselen laughs gleefully, and Dorian shakes his head.

"Smashing in Tevinter heads with my mace. I can't _wait_," Iselen crows, and Leas rubs his forehead. In the background, their parents appear even more displeased, while below, Adhlean stares worriedly up at his uncle—with good reason, no doubt.

"Yes, yes, show off your fine Dalish masculinity and bravado to your new companions," Anverelan teases him. "Very impressive."

"It is, isn't it?" Iselen says with a grin.

Irosyla also shakes her head. "Creators have mercy. How do you two put up with this on a daily basis?" she says, looking at their parents.

"We've got used to it," says their father.

"That's what happens when you raise children with more looks than sense," Laisal breaks in, smiling wryly at the twins. Leas laughs.

Syghimye adds, with another awestruck look at Leas (no denying that it is), "But plenty of sense as well, of course!"

"You didn't need to tell them that," Telahmisa says. "Their egos don't need any more stroking."

Leas grins, and both the brothers run hands through their hair and rest their other hands on their hips. "Truly, I don't need to. I've heard all I've ever need to hear—but _more_ wouldn't go amiss," Iselen says, smirking, and Dorian watches the scene with a raised eyebrow.

He glances at Leas. "Is it _always_ like this?"

Halevuna answers before Leas can. "No, not always. Everyone's simply on edge because of Wycome and because we're about to start spending all our time around _shemlen_. They're just blowing off steam before somebody throws a punch."

Dorian nods his understanding and looks back at Leas. "Blowing off steam or not, we need to be moving along. We've tarried a while, and I've still got a lot more to show you," he says. His expression turns apologetic. "Sorry to cut this short, Dorian, but…"

"Don't mind me," Dorian says. "I'd be worried if you were more interested in spending your time with me than with them." He almost adds one of his typical facetious remarks, something like how he would understand if Leas _was_ more interested in his company. But, for once, he manages to swallow the words before they leave his mouth. It's probably a miracle he hasn't run his mouth off so far, much less revealed where he's come from, and he's not about to try his luck.

"All the same, I do need a few words with you," Leas says, and Dorian's relief immediately vanishes. "The rest of you, head upstairs. You'll find the rookery and Sister Leliana, our spymaster. Be nice to her—she's a hero of the Blight and worthy of respect. I'll be with you in a few minutes."

"Right. We'll try not to get lost in the meantime," his father says in the same dry tone as before, and Leas chuckles. "Come on, people, off we go." So saying, the Dalish head off, though most of them give Dorian some polite parting words before they leave, and Dorian inclines his head to them once again in response.

Once they've gone, he turns to Leas and blows out a breath, shoulders sagging. "Well, that went well."

Leas grins and runs a hand through his hair, playing with the strands. "Yes. Thank you for not running your mouth off or revealing you're Tevinter. That would have gone down badly."

"They'll have to find out, eventually. How are you going to handle it?"

"I'll tell them later, when I'm filling them in on Redcliffe. I hope you understand that I'd rather you weren't present for that conversation. My clan interact more closely with humans than most, but we're still very cautious of them—at best—and we have no more love for Tevinter than most. They won't believe a word that comes out of your mouth, so _I'd_ much prefer to handle things."

As is to be expected, though Dorian is admittedly relieved that he won't be dragged into this. "I wish you luck," he says lightly. "But should I expect them to come confront me afterwards?"

A brief pause, then Leas shrugs. "Some of them might, in which case, you're on your own. Telahmisa will be the most hostile—her parents were raised in Orlais before they fled to the Dalish, so she has plenty of horror stories to share about human atrocities. The others will be wary, but they'll be out in the field most of the time, so there shouldn't be a problem there. Adhlean and Iselen, on the other hand…" He grimaces.

"Yes, I noticed your brother was a bit… difficult. As for your boy…" Dorian trails off, shaking his head. What in the Maker's name is he supposed to do with _that_?

"Adhlean will be scared to death of you, more than he already is," Leas admits apologetically. "But this is his first time being around humans in such numbers, and he is timid by nature. I'll try to bring him around. Until then, I _don't_ want you alone with him. I trust you, but I don't want you to scare him. If you see him around, just… leave him be, yes?"

Dorian nods. "You don't need to tell me twice. And Iselen?"

Leas' grimace widens a little, and he rubs his forehead. "He won't be easy. He's got no love for humans or… anyone who isn't Dalish… and he _especially_ despises Tevinter and Orlais and the Chantry. And he's not quiet about it. So if you have to speak with him, say nothing about Tevinter unless you want to get your head bitten off. Granted, he'll probably do that _anyway_, but…"

"Marvellous," Dorian says, with a grimace of his own. "And he's coming with us?"

"He wouldn't have it any other way, and I admittedly would feel better having him at my back," Leas admits, smiling. "I'll say this for him: he won't get along well with _any_ of you, but he is loyal. You can trust he'll look after me."

"I suppose that _is_ something," Dorian concedes, though he's inwardly cringing at the thought of what might ensue when Iselen is in the party with him, Sera, Cassandra, Vivienne, or Solas—most especially Sera. Still, there's nothing that can be done for it now. "Well, I daresay you need to get on your way?"

Leas nods, seeming almost regretful (or perhaps that's Dorian's imagination at work?). "I do. I'll come see you when I can, but that might not be for a few days yet. I need to help Adhlean make his first staff, among other things. So I'll see you when I'll see you."

Later rather than sooner, part of him hopes, and the rest of him chastises said part, but he lets none of that show. "You know where I'll be," he says, blandly, and Leas smiles, then passes him by. As he does so, he brushes their hands together, for long enough that it can't be anything other than deliberate. While Dorian stares at him, he smiles, then he heads to the stairwell and follows his family up to the rookery. Once he is out of sight, Dorian looks down at the place where their hands brushed, and his stomach turns over.

Maker's mercy, _what_ has he got himself into?

* * *

**Translations**

_"'Ma serannas, da'mis."_: "Thank you, little blade."

_"Tel'gela, ise ni'shemlen."_: "Do not be afraid, he's a friendly human."

All translations taken from FenxShiral's Project Elvhen.


	3. May You Learn

For the rest of the day and the next day after that, Leas remains busy, both with his usual duties and with helping his brother, son, and clanmates integrate into the Inquisition. Dorian sees him once, when he comes up to the library to borrow every primer on magic they have for Adhlean's use, but they say nothing to each other, and that is probably for the best. The situation has changed now that his family is here, and it is perhaps best that they settle into a bland friendliness, let the events of a few days ago be an incident of which they'll never speak again.

If some part of him objects most strenuously to that plan and insists on dreaming up possibilities for more even now, well, Dorian has had years of practice ignoring it.

Two days later, when the party is preparing to leave for the Storm Coast to set up a potential alliance with the Qunari (a concept that repulses his ingrained Tevinter sensibilities, not that he'll admit to that), Dorian sits in his usual alcove and continues reading Danarius' work. This time, the words flow through his head, settle in his brain. Now that the euphoria has gone, and the dismay has settled down to a soft disquiet, he can focus much more easily, and thank the Maker for that. He was worrying he'd fall behind, but now…

When he is halfway through the volume, Dorian lays it aside and stretches, easing life back into his limbs. He turns Danarius' theory on the potential uses of veilfire and how they might be rediscovered over in his head, and he considers sharing them with Leas the next time he comes to talk. The man has an insatiable appetite for knowledge, especially of the magical variety, and he always jumps at the chance to rediscover something lost to his people. There can be no doubt he would be eager to put Danarius' theories to the test… even if Danarius _is_ a magister.

_Cultural exchange, of a sort. Wonderful. A pity my ancestors never knew the meaning of the term._

The thought has scarcely passed through his head when Dorian catches movement out of the corner of his eye, the flash of a familiar smile, and—speak of the spirit—he turns to see Leas approaching him. There's an oddly _tentative_ smile on his face, a certain wariness about him that he has never carried around Dorian before, and he wrings his hands in a way that seems almost unconscious. _Nervous? Strange. Though I suppose he could be merely frazzled. I hope Josephine's altered his schedule to accommodate all this. Too much to hope that she scheduled in sleep, too?_

The unease and that idiotic, _romantic_ (oh, the horror) part of him immediately awaken, but Dorian, as ever, keeps his mask of civility and facetiousness plastered on his face. If Leas' family couldn't (entirely) dislodge it, Leas himself certainly will not. He gives Leas a wry smile and says, "Got a moment to spare for the big bad Tevinter, have we? My, what will your family think?" A legitimate concern, to be sure. Most of them seemed polite enough, but will Iselen and—what was her name—Telahmisa, to say nothing of Adhlean and Leas' parents, even want Leas spending any time around him when they're not out in the field?

"Oh, never mind them," Leas says with a wave of his hand. "You're, er, following me, and I can't stop talking to you just because _they_ don't approve."

Dorian notes the uncharacteristic hesitation, but he thinks nothing of it, unable to decide if he's pleased or alarmed by this development. It's no _surprise_, but still, there's that nagging doubt. Should Leas _really_ be spending his time with him when his family will no doubt disapprove even more strongly than the southern humans? He might have defended him to Mother Giselle, but she is a relative stranger. This… "_Can_ you not? I wonder."

Leas shrugs, seeming uncaring. "I'm the one calling the shots here, and most of them will never even see you. It'll be fine."

An excellent point, but his doubts will not be so easily alleviated. "You are _remarkably_ confident about that," he says, as though Leas weren't remarkably confident about most things.

"I know my family," Leas tells him, smiling as he rests his hand on his hip and leans into it. "It'll work out, trust me. Albeit not without a bit of difficulty, but…"

Dorian raises an eyebrow. "Inspiring, to be sure," he says dryly.

Leas chuckles, and the sound is uncharacteristically weak. He rubs the back of his neck with his other hand and bites his lip, and his eyes dart here and there, never meeting Dorian's. They're not gestures that Dorian is accustomed to seeing in Leas, and his eyebrow climbs higher. "_Trust me,_" Leas says, and he tugs at his ear and clears his throat. "Anyway, I'd… like to talk to you about something."

Innocuous enough words, but not ones that Dorian can trust with the way Leas is behaving. "How ominous. Has my father finally come up with an offer to buy me from you?" Why he chooses to be so flippant in _that_ manner, he's not entirely sure, but his unease and that cretinous side of him that wants for more are rearing their ugly heads again. Flippancy is his tried-and-true tactic for ignoring them.

_So long as he doesn't mean what I _think_ he means…_ Dorian shudders and, just so he doesn't have to think about it anymore, veers off into wishing Leas hadn't got him to talk to his father, not that that's an easier subject.

Leas, meanwhile, appears mildly baffled, and he stares at Dorian. "Er. No, it's nothing like that…" he says, in the most perfectly nonplussed tone Dorian has ever heard, and he sucks his lip between his teeth. Watching him, Dorian can almost taste him again.

_Venhedis, enough of that. Think of anything else,_ and he returns to his father again—not an easier subject, no, but certainly a _safer_ one.

"I wouldn't blame you," he says, with more lightness than he feels. "My father's a very wealthy man."

For a moment, Dorian catches the sight of blood rushing to Leas' face and turning his cheeks almost the same colour as his hair, but then he buries his face in his hands. "_Creators!_" he groans, and despite himself, Dorian smiles a little. Getting such a rise out of Leas is still new to him—might never get old, he hopes. A moment later, Leas lifts his head up slightly, but keeps it mostly in his hands; Dorian has to suppress a chuckle at the sight. His efforts are more than aided when Leas clarifies, saying, "I meant I wanted to talk about _us_."

And there it is.

"Oh-ho! I see. What's the latest news on the '_us_' front, then?" Leaving it all on Leas—selfish of him, he knows, but damned if he knows what he wants out of… this… and he can't wrap his head around the implications of what Leas has just said. If he wants to talk about them… does that mean he wants to end it, officially, which would be _wise_, or does he want…?

Holy Maker. If the latter is true, even with his family here…

_You needn't be either excited or scared, you fool. It won't be 'more'. It'll be the same as usual. They'll never know._ And with that thought—paradoxically, as encouraging as it is disheartening—he's able to continue forth. He watches as Leas lifts his head up a little further, revealing that his cheeks have become even _redder_. In the silence, Dorian raises an eyebrow, and Leas looks away again, shifting from one foot to the other and back.

When he speaks, his voice is small, screaming tentativeness. "I was hoping to… to get to know you better." He wets his lips. "To be closer. _Fenedhis_, am I going to have to spell this—"

Dorian stares at him for half a moment then smiles, even as his mind whips itself up into a frenzy of _is he mad_ and _is he asking for more_ and _no, he's not, they never do_ and _why would he—even if it's not more—with his family here_ and _why is he being so nice about it, most are usually rather blunt_. As he says, "No need, my dear man," he supposes that Leas is trying to let him down gently—it would be so much like him. Get what he wishes, then get out, but he'll be considerate enough to make sure Dorian isn't hurt.

If he'd wanted that, then they should have done this a long time ago. "So… you and I? People will talk," he continues, uncertain if he's trying to deter Leas or simply to _warn_ him. If Leas wants to be… closer, it'll damn well be necessary. If he doesn't, if sex is all he wants… well, perhaps it won't be so needed, but people will talk about anything.

Leas' response is distressingly quick. "Let them." He says it not only as if he does not care the damage this could do to his reputation, but as if he does not even _comprehend_ it, and Dorian shakes his head. The poor naïf with his wide blue eyes, so childishly assured he can get his way with no consequences—ignorant of the very concept of consequences. He suddenly feels very, very glad Leas was not born in Tevinter.

"And with your family here?" he says pointedly. If Leas cannot comprehend consequences, then _he_ cannot comprehend why he would want to take such an absurd risk, want to potentially damage his relationship with his family for the sake of this. Hypocritical, perhaps, but Leas is on good terms with his family, and he has a _child_. "Have you thought this through?"

Leas lets out another chuckle, weaker yet, and he runs a hand through his hair and bites his lip. "I've _thought_ it. Maybe not all the way through," he says, and Dorian suspects that if he blushes any deeper, his cheeks will burst into flames. "I only—excuse me, this is going to sound terribly clichéd—I think there's something here, and I want to see where this goes. Family or no family. You didn't think I'd just… uh… leave it at that after what happened the other day?"

The thought _had_ crossed his mind, foolish though that may sound. Perhaps more than crossed his mind, but now he wonders why it had. It's not like Leas to leave things unfinished, and _he_ was the one who said they might have to explore the truth of the rumours later. Wonderful—it's almost like he was begging the Maker for trouble when he said that.

Unwilling to admit that he understands that part at least, Dorian deflects to a different issue. "Aren't they expecting you to bond with some Dalish girl, give little Adhlean even littler half-siblings?"

"They expect it," Leas says, smiling. "But they're aware I like men. I've made no secret of it. True, they might not approve of _this_, but… I won't put on a show for them any more than you would for your family."

Dorian opens his mouth to argue, but promptly shuts it again. This time, the silence stretches on as he watches Leas, who remains patient, as he always does. After a moment, he looks away.

Dammit. How can he argue with that, after everything he's told Leas about his family, after the encounter with his father? If he won't put on a show for them, why should he expect Leas to do so for not only his family but the thousands who all have their eyes on him? Oh, they'll tear him to shreds if he does anything they disapprove of, and they'll be quick to do so because he's an elf. But Leas has handled such naysayers so far with surprising grace and patience. So why stop now, and why deny himself this?

But what he learnt in Tevinter is not so readily let go of. These things must be done in private if they are done at all, and one does not get something for nothing. Leas has been exceedingly generous so far, but that he has not reached the limits of said generosity… that is more than what Dorian will accept. There must be a price, somewhere along the line.

And it will not be more. Even if Leas said something about thinking that there's something there—and Dorian refuses to pay any more attention to those words than he has to because merely considering them gives him too much hope and fear—he has experience enough with flattery. Leas is a very good flatterer; he has seen him in action before. Good enough to seem genuine. And perhaps he is… but that's another terrifying concept, and it surely cannot be.

He swallows. "But what would you need from me?" he asks, speaking slowly. "I think that's another pertinent question."

"Need? I don't know about that," Leas says. He wrings his hands again but now can meet Dorian's gaze. "I don't know where this is going any more than you do, Dorian. I just want to _try_. If it doesn't work, we don't say anything, problem solved. If it does, we'll cross the 'family' bridge when we come to it. I'm just saying, there's no need to be, er, overhasty…"

A reasonable suggestion, he supposes, offering _something_, but not an ironclad agreement. Flexibility. That's… mildly reassuring. Dorian weighs it all up in his mind, and Leas looks down, confidence apparently draining away as fast as it came.

"Of course," he stammers, "if you would prefer not to, you can just say so, and I'll understand—truly, I would, and—"

_That_, at least, seems genuine, and on impulse, Dorian steps forward and takes Leas' chin in his fingers, tilting his head up. Leas comes to a halt, and he stares with eyes gone wide—more so than usual, anyway.

"I see you enjoy playing with fire, Inquisitor."

Leas blushes again and would probably look away if he could. "I… yes. In more ways than one," he admits, with another weak laugh, and Dorian grins despite himself. Leas licks his lips again and continues. "I… know I'm asking a lot, with Adhlean and all… But you don't need to do anything for him if that's what you're wondering. I'm not asking _that_ much. I only…"

Foolish man, so convinced that he can keep two separate lives and not have them overlap, that he can have them both—that he can have his cake and eat it too. But—maybe that would be a concern if this were indeed _more_, no matter what he says. It can't be, so…

So for the second time, he pulls Leas up onto his toes and kisses him. Gently this time, and quickly; Leas sucks in his breath, but Dorian gives him no time to respond before pulling away a little. "You are a _fool_," he informs him, and that's true regardless of how little Leas no doubt wants. "But you make a compelling argument. All right, we'll see how this goes. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Leas' shoulders sag with relief, and he lets out a breathy chuckle before standing up on his toes and sealing their lips together again for a moment. "Consider me warned," he murmurs. "Th-thank you."

Dorian glances around to make sure they haven't been seen, and when he's satisfied, he looks back down at Leas. Leas is grinning now, eyes sparkling and alight with both relief and joy, and that is as fuel to the fire of the foolish side of him that hasn't learnt better yet. For who would be so _happy_ if their object of interest made a vague promise of sex at some future date? Perhaps he does want…

_No. He's just being kind. As always…_

"Thank me if this doesn't blow up in your face and ruin your reputation," he says, one last attempt (for now, anyway) at deterrence. "I'm good at doing that."

Needless to say, Leas is unmoved. Indeed, he only smiles, the poor stubborn fool. "You're talking to a Dalish elf who spends half his time speaking up for the elves to Orlesian nobles. Trust me, you can do your worst," he says, cheerfully.

Another excellent point. But _venhedis_, how blind the man is in his optimism. For a moment, Dorian considers accepting the challenge.

Then he looks down at Leas and allows himself the indulgence of stroking his cheek and letting Leas lean into his touch. "_Tu sis discas,_" he murmurs, though he knows Leas will not understand it.

_May you learn._


End file.
